


Maybe Memories

by CandyMonroe



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Brendon Is An Idiot, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Naughty Pete, Self Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-04 13:55:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CandyMonroe/pseuds/CandyMonroe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I thought I was living the rock star life.<br/>I thought I was an icon for all the people out there.<br/>I thought being famous was about living two lives: the personal one, the messed up insecure, tragic little guy who can’t look after himself; and the bubbly public life where you smile and wave and tell the kids that drugs are bad, never letting on about what’s really going on.<br/>I thought you covered up the private life with makeup and lies, always smiling that perfect, fixed smile that convinced even your best friend.</p><p>But now I realise I was wrong. It’s not the rock star life.</p><p>Its suicide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

I thought I was living the rock star life.  
I thought I was an icon for all the people out there.  
I thought being famous was about living two lives: the personal one, the fucked up insecure, tragic little guy who can’t look after himself for shit; and the bubbly public life where you smile and wave and tell the kids that drugs are bad, never letting on about what’s really going on.  
I thought you covered up the private life with makeup and lies, always smiling that perfect, fixed smile that convinced even your best friend.  
  
But now I realise I was wrong. It’s not the rock star life.  
  
Its suicide.  
  
\-------  
  
My name is Brendon Boyd Urie, born on 12 April 1987 in Las Vegas.  
  
I tried to live my life as a rock star, wanting to be a fake icon like so many others but I guess I fucked up big time. People always assume that the life of a musician is to be wasted at parties every night backstage, sleeping with a prostitute before stumbling back to the tour bus ready to collapse onto the couch and repeat the routine the next night.  
  
Sure that happens sometimes, but its not all fun and games: you sometimes don’t even make it to the couch, you pass out on the floor lying in your own sick and leaving the rest of your band to lift you up, clean you and the floor and lay you in bed. The next morning they look at you and they’re sympathetic for your hangover because you don’t do it every night, it’s not a common occurrence. Most nights you have maybe a beer back on the bus while heading off to the next gig. Or sit in the bar down in the hotel you’re staying at for the night before retiring to bed pretty early after the nights concert has ended because you’re tired, you’ve used all your energy and you just want rest before you get back up there. That’s what really happens with a rock stars life, but I didn’t realize that.  
  
My name is Brendon Boyd Urie, lying in a hospital bed on 12 April 2010 in Las Vegas.  
  
 _“Beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep…”  
  
“Is he gonna be okay?”  
  
“Sir can you please step out of the room.”  
  
“Just tell me if he’s gonna be okay dammit!”  
  
“We need you to leave, if you wouldn’t mind. Sarah, would you mind escorting this gentleman to the waiti-“  
  
“No! Please, just tell me! Fucks sake, Brendon, wake the fuck up!!”  
  
“Beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep…”_  
  
It started just less than two years ago. I think. During the time we were on tour I was lucky enough to spend some time with Pete Wentz. He was a great guy and he knew what was meant by “party”: on an evening he would have some drinks and we would either find a nightclub, or just take the stereo out to a local park with Ryan, Joe and some other guys that we would find. A lot of the time I wouldn’t drink, only occasionally picking up a bottle and sniffing it cautiously before taking a sip. It tasted strange and I wouldn’t know if I liked it or not so I would leave it on the side picking up some orange juice and swigging it from the carton.   
  
I think a lot, always wondering whether I should, whether I want to. Do I want more? Should I drink it? Do I want to drink it?  
  
I always stop myself reaching for the bottle, going over and sitting alone whilst watching Pete’s gestures get increasingly sloppy as he drinks more. I support him back to the hotel or the bus, ignoring his drunken warbling in my ear before helping him change into his pajamas and dismissing Patrick’s mutters of “Why do you even bother?” before heading back to my own bed.  
  
Some nights – when we’ve had a day without a gig – our bus might be a day ahead of them, stopping further along the road or sometimes behind them. On those nights I call Patrick making sure Pete’s got back safely and that he’s alive. Sure it means Patrick grumbles a lot more about calling at unearthly hours, but he does still help Pete get changed on those nights, treating him like a baby while I listen in on the conversations between them.  
  
Once I remember hearing a groan and then a thud before Patrick shouts at Pete to “get off the fucking floor and into bed”. I just laughed until I heard Patrick yell out about how he wasn’t taking his trousers off, he didn’t want a blowjob off Pete and that if Pete tried anything stupid, he would ensure there was no alcohol within his reach ever again.  
  
Pete was always full of surprises and jokes, but at times he would take the jokes too far and I guess I’m blaming him mostly for the life I got into.  
  
 _“Beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep…”  
  
“If you don’t let go of him right now, I’m calling security.” Firm.  
  
“I’m not going anywhere until I know he’s safe.” Quiet.  
  
“If he was going to be safe he wouldn’t have consumed as much alcohol as he did.” Angry.  
  
“His drinks might have been spiked!” Unconvincing.  
  
“Beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep…”_  
It was a few days after my 21st birthday when he started doing it. I knew Pete did stupid things at times but I never expected this. I guess at the time I should have reacted differently, but it was new and I liked it so I never told him to stop.  
  
It was when my glass of orange juice tasted funny. It was fresh from the carton and it was a cool night so I knew it hadn’t gone off or anything. A slight unease grew inside me so I emptied it into a bush, pouring myself some more. As I sipped it slowly, I could see Pete eyeing me not-so-subtly from across the grass. I was sat on the swing in a child’s play park where we had brought the stereo and just ignored him, setting my glass on the ground so I could start kicking my legs a bit and begin to swing. I hadn’t done this in years and I could feel the wind hitting my face making me smile.  
  
I closed my eyes against the feeling, opening them in time to see Pete slipping something into my glass and walking away. The uneasy feeling began to grow in the pit of my stomach again and I nervously stopped swinging, my heels colliding harshly with the child-safe-rubber-tarmac floor. I knew exactly what he had done so when I picked up my glass I was prepared to throw away the spiked drink, but as I tilted it something stopped me just before the liquid spilled from the glass.  
  
I was stupid, inexperienced, I hadn’t ever listened to the age old talks from my parents on keeping responsible. I never knew what made me do it but I lifted the drink to my lips, tilting the glass back and hesitating before letting the cool liquid flow into my mouth.  
  
I wanted more.  
  
It was only a drop and yet I craved another sip, another mouthful, another glass. I finished it quickly wiping my mouth with the back of my sleeve and swaying slightly on my feet. I knew they would laugh because I hadn’t drunk much, but it was my first drink. I grabbed the orange juice, half filling the glass and marching across the play area to Pete holding the glass straight in front of me and demanding more.  
  
I had never seen Pete move so fast. He grinned manically, racing to me and lifting me into his arms smiling at me. “I’m so proud of you!”  
  
“You’re also drunk.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
He took me back towards the drinks, adding different colored fluids to the glass from unmarked bottles, occasionally taking a sip of it, deciding he didn’t like it and emptying it before beginning again.  
  
After almost his millionth attempt he looked up at me, a puzzled look on his face. He asked me what he had put in it earning only a shrug in return as we both leant down to peer at the bottles. I sniffed at some of them before Pete grabbed one from under my nose with a triumphant look on his face.  
  
“What’s that?” I was nervous but I could see that it was right. I wanted some. I wanted more. I wanted it now. As he tipped some into the glass, mixing it with half-melted ice and juice I saw the word “VODKA” written in permanent marker on the side. He placed the full glass in my hand and wrapped his arm round me leading me back to the rest of the guys.  
  
“Welcome to the rock star life baby.” A sloppy kiss on the cheek and he left me surrounded by drunk musicians.  
  
When we turned up back at the hotel we were stood giggling in the elevator up to our floor before Pete pressed the emergency stop button causing the whole thing to jolt to a standstill. It was silent for a moment, my heart stopping just as the elevator did.  
  
“W-what are yo-“ His lips pressed firmly against my own, pushing me up against the wall. It was nothing more than just our bodies pushed together, lips barely touching anymore, but something snapped in my brain, sobering me up enough to think. It took a moment for my body to respond, but I pushed him away slightly. Not so far, but far enough away for me to see his face and I realized I hadn’t sobered up at all, it was just my imagination as my lips sought his again, mouths parted and tongues dueling for dominance.  
  
I reached past him starting the huge machine again before breaking. I turned away from him, folding my arms across my chest before slurring “You could have just waited until we were in the rooms.”  
  
We had reached the door of the room I was sharing with Ryan before he kissed me again. Hot, heavy and sloppy and yet unbelievably perfect.  
  
He murmured about putting the room to good use, but I shook my head at him. “Ryan’s sharing with me in there.” He pouted for a moment before grinning again and grabbing my hand. I was led along the corridor in silence before he reached a door, pulling the key out of his pocket and opening it. I was pushed inside and thrown against the wall as his lips slammed into mine again. My hands found their way up his shirt as he ran his own along my sides over and over. He let out a loud moan as my fingers met his nipples before the door opened and the light was switched on angrily.  
  
Patrick was stood in the doorway snarling at us.  
  
“Don’t you have any fucking respect Pete?! Some of us were trying to sleep! Though I guess if it wasn’t for fucking Brendon here, you wouldn’t even know your way back here!” He gestured towards me, making me giggle loudly.  
  
“We got l-lost loads.” I hiccupped slightly, sending me off into more fits of giggles. Patrick gazed at me in astonishment before reprimanding me and leading me by the hand back to my room. Pete was stood behind us still in the doorway looking dazed and waving meekly. He mouthed the words “He’s like our Mom.” at me, making me grin. I was pushed into my room and the door shut behind me as I stumble over Ryan’s shoes left lying in the middle of the floor.  
  
As I hit the ground I realized Patrick had left me and Ryan was sat up in bed rubbing his eyes wearily. “What the hell B. What time is it?” He looks round, trying to locate me but not managing. He flicks the switch to turn the light on next to his bed and finally spots me on the floor. “Oh sorry! I would have moved them, I guess I fell asleep before I got chance.” He gets out of bed to help me up and holds his hand out as offering to pick me up. “Why are you so late back anyway, you usually get Pete back ea- Are you drunk?”   
  
 _“Beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…”  
  
“His BP’s dropping…”  
  
“What’s happening?”  
  
“I thought I told you to get out. Okay, everybody clear.”  
  
“Brendon!!!”  
  
“…eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep…”_  
His jaw nearly hits the ground as I sway on my feet in front of him, smiling and nodding. A mixture of emotions crosses his features: sad, confused, worried, concerned, puzzled, angry…  
  
Angry. As soon as I saw the anger I backed away slightly, sinking backwards into the wall behind me, away from Ryan’s piercing gaze. He just stepped closer, forcing my head up but I avoid his eyes, looking around the room anywhere but at him. I don’t want to see. Don’t want to know the pain, the disappointment. Not with me, sweet, innocent little Brendon. I promised, promised I would never do anything stupid, I couldn’t risk it. Didn’t want to risk it.   
  
“Look at me, Brendon.” I close my eyes childishly, ignoring the few tears that escape and turn my head towards him. My eyes still closed, I feel his fingertips brushing away the stray water drops and I feel my head spin. I’m scared. I can feel his own body trembling next to me and I worry that it’s out of anger, annoyance. I want him to hurt me. To tell me I’ve done wrong. Just a slap would do, anything that means in the morning I’ll wake up with the memory of being stupid and not sticking to my promise. “Just look at me.”  
  
His fingers move up to brush over my eyelids, silently begging them to open. I feel his hand drop down to my shoulder, both hands pinning me to the wall, but not hard. I could break if I wanted to, could run away he’s not stopping me. Not physically. But I know I can’t. I don’t know why, I just…can’t. My eyes flicker slowly open and the light hits me making me collapse forwards into Ryan’s arms. I hear him curse loudly as he adjusts himself to support me. I don’t move, my body limp against his own as he wraps one arm round my waist and grunting as he grabs my legs with the other, lifting me off the ground. He shuffles a bit, trying to get the position just right so he wouldn’t drop me before beginning to walk.  
  
I nuzzle my head against his neck, wanting to sleep as I wrap my arms round his neck, but as soon as he begins to lay me on the bed my stomach heaves and suddenly we’re both covered in vomit. I start to mumble a sorry but he just picks me up again and I realize we’re heading to the bathroom. The shower starts and I feel his hands on my feet, taking my shoes off.  
  
“C’mon, lets get you cleaned up.” It hurts to hear the disappointment in his voice, but I’m too tired to care. Soon I’m stripped down to my boxers and his hands hesitate before saying “Do you want me to leave you to get ready?” but I mumble an incoherent response, moving closer to him with a groan. His fingers are just touching the waistband of my boxers before he pulls them down and helps me into the shower.  
  
 _“Beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep…”  
  
“Ry, you gotta eat, its been 3 days.” Concern.  
  
“I’m not leaving him.” Weary.  
  
“But you haven’t slept, or eaten, heck have you even been to the toilet!” Sad.  
  
“I’ll get a coffee in 5 minutes.” Defeat.  
  
“Food.” Demand.  
  
“…bring it here, I’m not leaving.” Request.  
  
“Beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep…”_  
  
The next few months were a blur. I began drinking from any bottle that was in reach, sleeping with any girl who passed me by, snorting any powder that just so happened to be in a line. I was drifting from the band slowly, yet managed to keep up performance standards. I always regretted the mornings, most of them I woke up naked next to Pete with his arm slung round my waist and I would be thrown into paranoia, getting hysterical over last nights events. Once or twice I was in my own bed, curled into Ryan. I would be in my pyjamas, with him sleeping in vomit stained clothes and I would immediately feel guilty, waking him up with a mug of coffee and American bagels filled with anything he wanted. He never seemed to complain, but then when I reached out to touch him, to apologise he would flinch away and a small flick of his head and I would notice small bruises littering his skin where the hair uncovers them. I ask him about them, but he just shakes his head, says he doesn’t know or that he fell. Never convincing me, but he wouldn’t say much else.  
  
He began to get withdrawn wearing long sleeved jackets and combing his hair across most of his face. He wouldn’t speak, would sit gazing out of the window between venues before we ended the tour and went home for a few weeks.  
  
It was a shock when he appeared on my doorstep two days after we’d arrived back home. It was about 6pm and I was just heading out to meet Pete. I thought something was wrong. I started shaking as he pulled me into a hug and I feared the worst, my arms wrapped round him tightly not letting him go but he didn’t seem upset, he was just as withdrawn as before, but no worse. His sleeves were down but as he pulled away they got dragged up slightly and I saw the bottom of a bandage. My mouth opened to speak but he moved us round so he was inside and I was out as he moved the sleeves down. “Have fun B.” He murmured, relocating to my couch and switching on the TV. I hesitated before closing the door and heading off down the road.  
  
When I woke up, my head was spinning still and a quick glance at the flashing numbers on the clock next to me told me it was 4 in the morning, I groan, throwing my head back against the pillow wanting more sleep, yet not managing it. I notice I’m in my pyjamas again. Why? Who? When? I reach to my side, ready to run my fingers through Pete’s hair as I do most nights, but my hand meets air and he’s not there. I growl at the thought, wishing he’d come home with me. He probably went back to his own apartment anyway.  
  
My feet touch the ground. Cold. Hard. The bathroom doesn’t seem that far away when I start to head towards it, but suddenly I’m falling, stumbling over a soft body lying in my doorway. I let out a yell as I hit the ground cursing under my breath. I can hear somebody fumbling about, hands on my back, my arm, rolling me over and I come face to face with Ryan.  
  
He’s looking down at me concerned, his fingers now resting on my chest. I glance him over, taking in the short sleeved “Spooning Leads to Forking” t-shirt and boxers with rubber ducks on, a grin catching my lips at the sight. His hair is stuck up at odd angles, a small part flopping down and framing his face perfectly in the dim light his eyes dancing in the darkness as he checks me over. “You okay B? Sorry, I didn’t think you’d- I mean usually you sleep- you don’t wake up til late- does it hurt anywhere?” he’s rambling in apology and I just close my ears to his voice for now. I keep on looking, he’s still wearing his socks and he’s kneeling up on a sleeping bag that’s stretched out across my floor. I move my eyes upwards to his waist where the t-shirt is riding up, showing off a thin trail of creamy white flesh. His arms are covering part of the view to his body where they rest on me and my eyes finally settle on his wrists and I feel my body tense and my heart stop.  
  
The white flesh is covered in zig-zagging cuts across the inside of his wrists. The red of the dried blood contrasts with his skin even in the near-darkness and makes me feel sick. I remember the bandage from earlier and I want to know why.  
  
Without warning he pulls away, sliding his arms beneath the sleeping bag and rolling away from me. I can hear him sniffing slightly and reach out to touch him, my hand hovering just above his shoulder. “Ry…” My fingers make contact as he flinches away.  
  
“Look at me, Ryan, just look at me.” The words hit me as soon as they’ve left my lips. It’s what Ryan had said the first night and it was like I could feel the pain and disappointment again. He was doing this because of me? He hated me for it, I caused this. So why did he care? Why did he come back every night to look after me?  
  
He was reflecting what I had done, refusing to meet my gaze, just shutting his eyes when I tried to roll him over. “Talk to me Ry, please…don’t do this.” It took a moment for him to answer, just a simple word from cracked lips.  
  
“Why?” Because I don’t want you to. Because it’s wrong. Because it hurts me. Because it’s my fault. Because I don’t want you hurt. Because it’s stupid and irresponsible.  
  
“Because you’re all I have.”  
  
At that he rolls towards me, cracking his eyes open slightly. I can feel him scrutinizing me steadily, taking in every minor action I make, every tiny flick of my head to move my hair before he finally states “You’re still not sober.” I can feel the tears spring to my eyes at his response.  
  
“Then stay til morning, talk to me in the morning, I’ll prove it to you, prove that I care. Don’t leave me Ry, not tonight.” The tears are slipping down my cheeks now and once again like that first night, he’s brushing away the tears, barely touching me and yet still nearly calming me. He stands up and leads me to my bed, laying me down before climbing in behind me and wrapping his arms round my waist to comfort me.  
  
“Sleep.” He whispers, and I do.  
  
 _“Beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep…”_  
  
“Ryan, please come home, you can’t stay here forever.”  
  
“I’m staying at least until he wakes up.”  
  
“Have you slept?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Have you eaten?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“Beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep…”


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He turns suddenly, pushing me back onto the bed and curling his hands into fists in anger before snarling at me, “So this is about you then? This is all about you?!”

_"Beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep..."  
"He should wake up soon."  
"Thank you."  
"...beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep."_  
  
I can feel movement beside me and I lash out. "Get the fuck out of my bed Pete." My hand connects with an arm and I shove him off the edge of the bed and onto the floor. My mouth tastes fuzzy and I'm dying for a slash so I swing my legs over the side of the bed and head to the bathroom. As I pull some aspirin out of the cupboard I hear a groan. "I mean it Pete, get the fuck out." It only takes a moment before I hear footsteps padding softly behind me and then the toilet being used. "Christ, get back to your own fucking apartment! It's my fucking toilet you black haired bit-"  
  
Ryan glances at me as he comes over to the sink. "Morning to you too." Oh, yeah. He washes his hands before grabbing my toothbrush from the side.  
  
"You know, for someone who's barely spoken to me for the past few months, you don't seem to mind using my shit."  
  
"You swear too much in a morning."  
  
"You're using my toothbrush." He spits into the sink, washing the foam away before handing it to me.  
  
"Your breath stinks." He sends me a small joking smile before walking out. Without thinking I stick the toothbrush in my mouth before spitting it out again and grimacing. He might be my best friend, but there are boundaries.  
  
Being alone in the bathroom gives me time to think about last night. Of course I remember it now, how could I forget? The pain that I saw in his eyes is something I could never forget. This morning he's acting like we used to, so close and just joking about everything, it felt so right, just back to normal. His hair sticking up in all the same places, a little tuft behind his left ear, the hair on the right side of his head perfectly flat and that big ball off fluff that sticks up at the back. He still walked around in his boxers and a t-shirt, dragging his feet like he was ready for sleep straight away.   
  
The only difference was the angry red marks on his arms. Why did he leave them on show? Because there are no secrets between us? To make me feel guilty? He forgot to cover them?  
  
CRASH!  
  
He pulls me from my thoughts with a yell. "Uh, B, I think I broke something!" So he's still clumsy. I grin inwardly before walking to the kitchen to see Ryan stood in a pool of coffee and porcelain holding the handles of 2 mugs. Just the handles.  
  
"You think?" I step forwards, slipping on my shoes from by the door and taking the handles from his hand. "Don't move whilst I clean up, you don't wanna' stand in that shit, you might cut your pretty little skin on it." I joke before stopping. Fuck. I glance at his wrists and see his whole body pale. "Ry... shit. I didn't mean anything by it. I swear, I forgot. It was just- it's like when we would joke. It was just for a laugh. I mean, I don't... I wouldn't want you hurt. I just thought- shit."   
  
"It's okay, I know." He's quiet but shoots me a reassuring grin. I take it as my cue to shut up and leave it with a returning smile before clearing up around him.  
  
 _"Beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep..."  
"Oh, Mr. Ross, I see you've returned! We were wondering where you had gone." Yeah I was wondering where he'd gone too. It was all quiet but I couldn't call out for him, hell I couldn't even open my eyes.  
"I just needed a shower and clean clothes and stuff like that." Oh, well, that makes sense. He's been there for so long. I can smell. I can smell the peach shower gel he used. He always uses that shower gel, he says the peach makes his skin 'fresher'. I say it makes him smell like a girl. Oh and he must be close, I can smell the kiwi shampoo on him too. I just wanna' reach out and tell him I'm fi-  
"His finger moved!"  
"It's just a reflex. It's likely to happen regularly."  
"But, it's good right?! It's good!"  
"It's an improvement, yes. But just reflex, most likely to the drugs or something else around him." Shut up Doctor Fuckface, you don't know what you're on about, I did that!  
"...beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep."_  
  
Ryan has stayed at my house for almost a week now and all we've done is sit and watch films and have a laugh. It's like it used to be, except for the tension hanging like spider-webs in the air. I haven't had a drink, but I can see the way he tenses up whenever I say I'm off out to get something. Honestly, I've only been to get stuff from the shop. I had one or two beers with him, but nothing much because he watches me carefully. It's like an unspoken deal that I won't get drunk.  
  
He dreams. And not good dreams. I can hear him having a nightmare every single night, and it scares me. I want to know what he's dreaming about, but all I can do is go wake him up from his sleeping bag and pull him onto the bed whilst he clings to me and cries. We're protecting each other and neither of us knows what to do.  
  
 _I can feel myself waking up._  
  
We're watching Role Models for what must be the millionth time and he's sitting giggling quietly even though he knows every line of the film. I won't complain because I want him to be happy. "Hey Ry, do you want a glass of water or anything, I'll grab some food from the kitchen too." His eyes barely flicker to me as he nods before returning to the film.  
  
I'm just balancing everything in my arms, lifting the bowls of food from the counter and balancing two drinks when the door bursts open. "Brendon, you motherfucking sexy, sexy dickhead! Where the hell are you?!" He's singing. Pete can't sing when he's drunk. He shouldn't even try. I mean, I know he can sing onstage, but seriously? I can't even tell if that's to a real tune or not. He runs into me, sending everything over me including half his drink straight onto my hair. "Come out with us! You haven't been out for so long, come get drunk and we'll have a good time!" He grabs my ass, squeezing hard and I yelp, pushing him away.  
  
"Get out of my house Pete." He just giggles, walking into the living room where Ryan is sat gazing up in confusion.  
  
"Hey Pete, uh, any reason-"  
  
"He-" Pete points slightly to the left of me, eyes focusing on the wall behind me. "-needs to come and get drunk with me. Because I haven't had sex in a week and he only sleeps with me when he's drunk."  
  
"That's because I don't want to sleep with you." I grab his arm, steering him towards the open door. "Get out." It takes a bit more persuading and gentle nudging - and maybe, possibly pushing him a tiny bit too hard over the threshold so that he trips over and lays on the ground giggling - before I finally shut the door on him, knocking the lock just to be sure.   
  
I'm bending over the sink with the tap running so I can wash the sticky drink from my hair when Ryan speaks to me. "Why did you do that?"  
  
"Do what?"   
  
"You know what I mean..." Okay, so I do know what he means, he means why did I reject Pete? The reason I didn't answer is because they answer is- "I don't know."  
  
"You don't know?"  
  
"No." I stand up, turning off the tap and rubbing my wet hair with a towel as I turn to face him. "I don't know. Well, I don't think I know - if that makes sense. I do know why I rejected him, that's easy - because I didn't want to go with him. What I don't know is why I didn't want to go with him. My head's a mess Ry, it's a complete mess. I need help, I need... I need a drink." I push past him heading towards the kitchen but he grabs my wrist.  
  
"Bren, don't do this, you know what it does to you, what it does to me..." His voice is breaking from stress and upset and I can feel he's shaking.  
  
"It's just one drink. It doesn't do anything to me. It's not like I hurt people or-" Ryan flinches. "-hurt... Ry?" That's when I notice the fading bruises along his neck, littering his skinny frame. Something I never really paid attention to. I feel myself break. I could never, never hurt my best friend, not someone as physically fragile as Ry. Only physically because he's my rock, my saviour, my best friend, the only person to stand by me through everything and he means the world to me. There is no way I could ever, ever do that to him. He's too special. I couldn't...  
  
"I'm going out." It's the only thing I can think of doing. I need to leave, to get out. I need to think about everything I have caused.  
  
I need to forget.  
  
 _"Beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep, beep beeeeeeeeeep..."  
There's light above me. Is this heaven? Oh God, don't say I'm dead! Oh, nope. Not dead. At least I don't think I am. That light? It was just a lamp. It wasn't above me either; I was lying on my side. Great, now I feel stupid. It's too intense; I can't keep my eyes open.  
"Brendon? Brenny? Shit! Spence, Jon, he's moving! Where's the doctor? Where the hell is the fucking doctor? Press that button, get a nurse or something; I think he's waking up!"  
"Ry, what the fuck, he's been out for so long. You know the doctor says it's reflexes, he's unlikely to wake up for ages, if at all." That's Spence, fucking optimistic as always. Note the sarcasm.  
"Don't be so sure Spence, the doctor also said it's unusual to reacting the way he has been. Maybe they aren't reflexes; maybe he can actually hear us. Bren? Can you hear us?" Meet Jon, the opposite of Spence. He see's the silver lining on the dullest fucking cloud and puts everyone into an amazingly good mood. "Can you hear me? Please wake up." He's at breaking point; I can hear it in his voice. I've managed to crack the happy kid.  
A warm hand closes around my own and I can feel breath next to my neck. "Brendon Boyd Urie." It's my name, spoken quietly by the one person who means the most to me. I blink once and the light floods through my dry eyelids, blinding me. My best friend, my saviour._  
  
I did forget.  
  
I forgot how much the person sat on my left means to me, destroying him alongside myself. I was almost dead for weeks, only the steady beeping of my heart monitor keeping me sane.  
  
Ryan kept me alive, knowing he was sat beside me through everything made me fight, fight to see his face again, to see him smile at me even if it was for one last time. He's more than my best friend, he's everything to me - without him, I couldn't function.  
  
As my eyes grew accustomed to the light I can hear screams and shouts of laughter, cheers yells and... tears? Happy tears. Tears of joy. Ryan.  
  
"Brendon Boyd Urie!" It's louder this time and I question the repeated use of my full name.  
  
"George Ryan Ross III." I croak, attempting to pull my lips into a lopsided smile. He's a blur and I want to see. I want to be able to see his face, see the look of joy on his features, the glistening tears of happiness dripping from his cheeks. I want to be able to see Jon sat down on a chair in his typical reaction of happiness because his legs have stopped working. I want to be able to see Spencer stood in the corner, because I know he's crying, he's a complete softie - and I'm assuming this is a pretty emotional situation for them anyway. "Hey Jon, Spence." Another attempt at a wonky smile and I can hear them laugh slightly, muffled by the cushion Jon's probably crying into. I can feel someone else join Ryan by my bed and suddenly Spencer's hand is on my face, stroking my cheek softly and smiling. My vision's becoming clearer and I can see the joy above me.  
  
"Spence..." I beckon him down. Well, try to. My hand barely moves but he gets the idea. It takes all my strength to pick my hand from the bed and smack him round the face. It's like slapping someone with a piece of cloth; barely touching and falling straight back down onto my body. "That's for not believing in me."  
  
"I told you he could hear us, he knew all along!" Jon laughs at Spencer. A bittersweet moment.   
  
The rest of the day passed quickly. Nurses and doctors dashing in and out, checking various tubes as I drifted between states of consciousness. As far as I could tell, I'd shocked everybody there. They were calling me strong, a fighter, 'certainly-something-else'. I felt special, I felt important and wanted. I felt loved. I felt important.  
  
\-------  
  
Three days later and I'm almost back to my normal sleeping pattern. Three days later and Ryan is still sat by my bed, holding my hand with tears in his eyes, laughing and joking. Three days later and his smile is all I need to recover. Three days later and I can see he's still unhappy though. Three days later and the bruises are gone but his wrists are still heavily bandaged and every time my eyes flicker towards them, he tilts my head back up so that my eyes are on his face. As soon as I bring the subject up, he changes the topic. I can't break past his smiling demeanour and it's driving me insane. Of course I want him to be happy, I want him to smile and laugh like he is doing now. But I want him to be completely happy, not just pushing things aside.  
  
I want to get rid of his demons and stop them destroying him from the inside.  
  
"Bren, you gotta talk to Ryan, he's ripping himself to shreds at home." Jon, always trying to make things right - and usually managing it. He's come down to keep me company whilst Ryan goes to explain to Pete exactly what was going on. As far as Decaydance, Warner Bros. and Fueled By Ramen were concerned, I'd fallen and hit my head on a coffee table. We didn't really have much else to do with any other label, so they didn't know and didn't really care. Besides, the media would blow this completely out of proportion because that's what they do. They don't give a damn about peoples feelings; they just aim for the money. It's sick and immoral, but they don't care.  
  
They shove mediated stories into people's minds, brainwashing the countries and filling them with stupid representations that we take for granted - they fill us with gossip and conspiracies, never once looking for the consequences. And why don't they care about the consequences? Because, hey! More news! They thrive off the consumers rapidly decreasing brain cells until one day we'll be reading the top story about how Paris Hilton's Chihuahua has broken a nail. We couldn't tell people the truth, it would kill us.  
  
"I tried Jon, honest to God I did, but he keeps changing the subject. He won't let me talk to him at all. It's killing me as well - the fact that he won't talk to me. He's my best friend and he's pushing me out!"  
  
"You've just got to be more stubborn about it. You know him, he's just as stubborn as you and he won't break until you win."  
  
"But that's not fair! If he doesn't want to talk, I can't make him. I can't hurt him more than I already have..."  
  
"I don't think it's possible to hurt him more Brenny, honestly. He's past breaking point, he's just lost. Have you seen his wrists? Me and Spence tried to stop him, but he needs you, we aren't enough. Please Bren."  
  
He leaves me alone. I haven't been alone since it happened. Alone with my thoughts.  
  
\-------  
  
"Ry, we need to talk." He immediately stands up, the remains of a previous joke lingering in the air, forgotten as the smile slips from his lips. Before he can reach the door, I'm out of my bed and grabbing his wrist. He stops.  
  
"Brendon, please... we don't need to, we don't need this. We were fine."  
  
"But nothing's fine! Look at yourself Ry, you're tearing yourself apart from the inside and it's killing me too!"  
  
He turns suddenly, pushing me back onto the bed and curling his hands into fists in anger before snarling at me, "So this is about you then? This is all about you?!"  
  
"Well, I  _am_  the one who's been in the hospital for the past-"  
  
"Not everything is about your feelings! Fuck, you haven't even had feelings for the past four weeks! I have, I've felt every emotion possible! I've been so fucking broken because if it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have gone out that night. We'd be starting our tour right now and you'd be fine! I fucked this up and because of me, you're in hospital!" The tears are flowing freely now between both of us.  
  
"Ry, it wasn't your fault, it was a weakness in myself! It wasn't your fault, believe me, trust me when I tell you that you aren't to blame, I would never blame you."  
  
"You mean like all those nights you'd come home fucking off your fucking face, telling me that I should have stopped you going out?! That I should have looked after you?! That I was the worst friend anyone could want?! I thought I meant something to you, I thought I was your friend..." Seeing my best friend break, watching him collapse to the cold lino floor with his head in his hands was enough to drag me into reality. I slipped off the bed, settling on the floor next to his shaking form.  
  
"Please Ry, I didn't mean any of that. The only reason I'm alive now is because of you. You saved me. You were wrong when you said I had no feelings. I did. I felt everything from beginning to end. My body was ready to give up, but all it took was knowing that you were sat next to me to bring me back. When you grabbed my hand I felt strong and I knew I could push through. I wanted to get better just so I could see you smile again." I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him closer into a hug against the bed. He curled into my side, nestling his head into my hospital gown and wiping his nose on my shoulder. I grimace slightly, reaching above me and fumbling around for the tissues I knew were somewhere on the table next to the bed. Locating them and pulling them down, I pull one out and begin to wipe his face softly in attempt to get rid of the tears. "You kept me alive Ry, you kept me going."  
  
"So why would you hurt me?" It's quiet and barely distinguishable as I pull him in closer to me.  
  
"I didn't mean to, I could never say that stuff if I knew what I was do-"  
  
"Not mentally..." Silence falls between us as I realise what he means.  
  
"I never wanted to hurt you, not mentally, not physically. You know I could never ever do that to you."  
  
"But you did." How do I even reply to that? My face is becoming damp with the overflowing tears, salty trails slipping down my cheeks to the corner of my lips. I can taste the bitterness in the liquid almost as a reminder of what happened.  
  
"I hate it. Knowing I could do something like that to you. It wasn't me, I swear it wasn't me. You're the closest thing I've ever had, ever will have. You never deserved to go through that Ry and I will never forgive myself for what I've done. Even if you leave and never want to talk to me again, I want you to know that I promise that I regret everything I did and if I could go back and change everything, I would." I loosen my grip on him as a sign that he could leave if he wanted, but he stayed clutching onto my gown and I could feel him shaking as the tears soaked through to my shoulder.  
  
The minutes tick by, feeling like hours turning into forever and we stay huddled on the floor, tears becoming our best friends and silence becoming our blanket. I can't see the clock so I don't know how long it takes until Ryan speaks again, but I can't answer, I don't know the answer.  
  
"What made you do it though?"  
  
Was it because I could? Because of peer pressure? Because I was stupid, inexperienced, curious? I didn't know. I could take a good guess though. "You know when you see in music videos and in the newspapers, the internet, the paparazzi work their magic showing us these rock stars partying every night and having fun? I wanted to be like that. I thought it was what we were supposed to do and I felt like I was missing out. I just wanted to be happy and enjoy myself. I didn't enjoy pulling Pete home every night while he looked so perfectly content. He loved everyone and everything around him without a care in the world. I wanted to be like that, to feel that happiness. I wanted to be across newspapers, a double page spread in a magazine about how happy I looked, what were my secrets? I wanted the attention and I wanted the attention directed at how happy I was. I didn't want to be stuck as the 'emo fag singer of some rock band', I wanted to be more. I wanted to be idolised."  
  
"Bren... that's not the way to it and you know that. Drinking doesn't make you an idol, it makes gossip and rumours and fuck, you slept with Pete, you beat me, you passed out in bus shelters and ditches all across the world! Is that the sort of publicity you want?!"  
  
"I never wanted any of that; I just wanted to be loved by everyone. And I know it's a tall order, but we got so far in this music and I wanted it to go further. I wanted to see how far we could get in the world. All I did was make everyone hate me."  
  
"What?!" He pulled back sharply, looking up at me with wide eyes. "No one hates you, we were scared. We thought we'd lost you! You can't understand how scary it is to find your best friend unconscious on his own doorstep! Yeah, Bren. You made it home, but you didn't make it through the door. I thought you were dead. I heard you knock and by the time I was at the door, you were lying in a pool of blood and vomit! You were fucking throwing up blood. You wouldn't move, you were barely breathing! I panicked and called Spence and he got you to a hospital. I will never be able to erase that image from my mind. Never."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"Promise me you'll stop drinking. Promise me. Look me dead in the eye and promise me."  
  
"I promise. Now promise me you'll stop this." I pick up his wrists from where they were resting in his lap and hold them in front of our faces.  
  
"It's... you don't understand. It's addictive. If I don't do it, I'll just break."  
  
"Ryan, please. If I can stop drinking, you can stop this. This isn't the answer, it never was."  
  
"I promise."

**Author's Note:**

> And that concludes that part...
> 
> Hey there, so this is my first piece of fiction on this site. I've been around on other sites before, thought I'd try something new - new readers, new fans, new critics.
> 
> Let me know what you think. Seriously. If you like what you see, I have plenty to add :)
> 
> Rose x


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